


After All (The Evermore Remix)

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all is said and done, what else is there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	After All (The Evermore Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hunters_retreat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunters_retreat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [After All](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/45760) by hunters_retreat. 



> Character deaths, but I promise it's not sad. Implied underage UST between siblings.

_This one's mine_ , Sam thinks when they find themselves seated at the kitchenette table. The room's like a hundred others they've stayed in over the years: the worn-out carpet and outdated wallpaper, the mismatched furniture and neutral décor, everything around them drab-looking and just this side of ugly. 

_"Look, Sammy,"_ thirteen-year-old Dean had said as he'd poured the last of the cereal into Sam's bowl. _"There's still a couple of rainbow marshmallows left."_

What Dean says now is, "Seriously?"

Sam's chair is rickety--something he hadn't remembered until now--and it wobbles as he leans forward, elbows bracing on the round Formica table. The smell of milk gone sour sneaks up on him and he leans back again, countering Dean's disbelieving expression with a shrug. 

" _This_ is a happy memory?" Dean goes on, as if this entire setting is some kind of personal affront. "Curdled milk and empty stomachs?"

Sam offers his brother a barely-there smile. "Lucky Charms," he says, pointing at his meager supper. Dean's bowl is empty, because there hadn't been enough left for the two of them, and the pang that blooms in Sam's stomach at the thought has nothing to do with hunger. 

"Yeah, real lucky," Dean mutters under his breath. Then, louder, "They stopped bein' my favorite when I was like, eight or something." 

"But you kept buying them." 

It's Dean's turn to shrug. "'Cause _you_ liked them."

"And you're still wondering why this is a fond memory for me? I mean, look at this," Sam tells him, gesturing to encompass the room, the table, the two of them. "Even back then it was the two of us against the world. And you, man, you were just a kid yourself, but all you did was take care of me."

"I didn't want you whining, is all," Dean says, looking away from Sam. 

"Dean, 'cmon," Sam starts, but the sound of Dean's chair scraping loudly against the floor effectively cuts him off. 

"It doesn't matter, Sam, okay?" Dean says as he stands up. "Nothing matters anymore. This is all we've got to look forward to now, forever, you get that? We're both stuck here having to relive a bunch of screwed up moments that weren't worth the price of admission the first time around." 

"Dean," Sam tries again, pushing his chair back too when Dean yanks the motel room door open. "It does matter, we're-" 

"We're _dead_ ," Dean finishes for him, all but spitting the word out. He's silhouetted in light as he stands in the doorway and Sam can't make out the expression on his face. "That's the operative word here, Sammy, _dead_." 

Sam's shoulders slump as he watches his brother walk away from him. "No, Dean," Sam says to himself, lingering inside the room, turning in a half circle to have one more look around. "The operative word here is _we_."

***

Dean's right about one thing: they're dead. Killed on a hunt, drowned by an evil water spirit. Sam remembers the cold shock of the water, how tight the spirit's grip on his ankles had been. He remembers sunlight slanting down into the lake, everything around him shimmering with liquid-green light, remembers Dean diving in after him, the at first determined, then panicked, then heartbroken look on his brother's face as the spirit dragged them deeper and deeper towards the bottom of the lake and Dean understood that that's how things ended for them. 

Sam remembers Dean's grip on his arms, as tight as the one pulling him down, tighter. Holding on to him, refusing to let go. 

Dean had been the last thing he'd seen before blackness had claimed him. The first thing he'd seen when he'd woken up here. 

Here, in Heaven. _Their_ Heaven, his and Dean's. Because they're _soulmates_. The word, the implication, the whole notion is absurd. Absurd and amazing and beautiful and so completely true that merely recognizing it as such _hurts_ , a deep pulsating ache that doesn't relent. Sam realizes it had always been there, but muted in comparison, not fully acknowledged. Now, though, now it's not only inside him, it's what he _is_ , substance and shape and purpose and feeling, wrapped around him like skin, filling him up like flesh and blood and bone, beating in his chest like a heart. A golden-bright glow that Sam sees mirrored in Dean every time he looks at him. 

If Dean's at all aware of it too--and Sam thinks he must be--he's not letting Sam in on it. Sam's not sure how long it's been; time is of no consequence at all now, but Dean hasn't stopped sulking yet. He doesn't hide his displeasure whenever they find themselves inside one of their memories, letting them play out with obvious reluctance. He's distant, he's angry, and Sam wants to shake him out of it, except that being dead seems to have gifted him with sharper insight and infinite patience: Sam's pretty sure he knows what's eating at Dean, and letting his hardheaded brother work it out on his own feels like the right thing to do for the moment. 

***

The memories come at random intervals and in no discernable order. Dean's sixteen and Sam is twelve and they're walking down an unpaved road under the hot Louisiana sun, sharing the latest dirty jokes they've heard, summer and exertion masking the blush on Sam's cheeks. Sam is four and Dean is eight and they're kicking a dingy soccer ball around Pastor Jim's backyard, Sam's short legs pumping furiously as he tries to keep up, Dean running at a slower pace for Sam's sake. Dean's eleven and miserable, sick with a nasty case of the flu while John's busy with research, and seven-year-old Sam comes back from school with a couple of dog-eared Batman comics he bought with his lunch money so Dean can have something "new" to read. Nineteen year-old Dean is slipping on the muddy ground, bringing Sam down with him as they spar in the field behind the empty house they're squatting in, on the move between North Carolina and Indiana, and fifteen-year-old Sam scrambles away from his brother even as Dean pushes him off, their hearts racing and heat burning low in the pit of their stomachs. 

They're twenty-six and twenty-two, nursing their beers in a bar in Oregon, tuning out the cheesy 80's song playing in the jukebox and smiling softly at each other, their legs touching under the table. They're thirty and thirty-four, driving down a desert road in California as afternoon becomes evening, the Impala's windows rolled down, Dean singing along to his favorite Kiss tape, deliberately changing the lyrics and making Sam laugh. Sam's three, curled up against his brother under the covers as a thunderstorm rages outside, seven-year-old Dean whispering to Sam in the dark so he won't be scared.

There's ten-year-old Dean, standing under the open hood of the Impala while John points out all the different parts of the engine to him, asking questions about each of them. There's twenty-year-old Sam, seeing Jessica for the first time, mesmerized by the way her hair trails behind her like a comet's tail as she runs across campus. Bobby shows eight-year-old Sam an old dusty book about dragons, teaches twelve-year-old Dean how to properly make pancakes. 

Mostly, though, it's Sam-and-Dean and Dean-and-Sam, and Sam doesn't fail to notice the glances Dean sends his way then, surprise mixed in with something else, something that Sam can't quite name but that makes his insides flutter nonetheless. 

***

They're camped out in the open, in-between memories, resting on their backs side by side as they watch the stars. It's a pleasantly cool night and the silence around them is deep, a dimension in itself. The stars shift and glide against the dark canvas of the sky, a slow-spinning motion that tugs at Sam's entire being. He can hear Dean's breath catching next to him, knows that he's not the only one feeling this, but he can't tear his gaze away from the sights above. From the corner of his eye he can see the grass glistening, his body, Dean's, light spilling down on them in tiny bursts and pinpricks. There's music in it, soft tinkling notes that resonate through Sam; Dean's hand finds his, their fingers entwining, and Sam thinks--no, he _knows_ \--that they've never been more alive. 

***

Sam's pushing a shopping cart down the breakfast aisle at the grocery store, Jess walking next to him, asking him what he wants, what he likes. She reaches for a box of Lucky Charms and Sam stops her, asking her to pick something else. "Sorry, I just don't like them," Sam tells her. He feels Dean's gaze on him like a physical thing, and it's a struggle to keep going until he and Jess are done and the scenery around him changes. 

It's just him and Dean now, standing in a field. Sam turns and looks at his brother, waiting.

Dean doesn't disappoint. "Why'd you lie to her about it?" he asks, going straight to the point. 

Sam's about to answer when everything around them changes again. They're six and ten and Dean's teaching Sam how to swim in the motel pool during the spring break they spent in Texas. Sam smiles at the memory, but Dean doesn't let it go any further; the broken, frustrated sound he makes shifts them both back into the field they'd been standing in a few moments before. 

"Dean?" Sam prods gently, worried. 

"I was a crap teacher," Dean says, his tone heavy with things unsaid. 

"You were a great teacher," Sam tells him, taking a step closer to him. 

"You drowned," Dean whispers, averting his gaze.

"Not because I didn't know how to swim," Sam points out reasonably. "It wasn't your fault, Dean."

"Yeah, it was," Dean insists. "I didn't save you. I tried, Sammy, I tried so hard, but I wasn't- I just wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough."

"You were always strong enough," Sam murmurs. He's as close to Dean as he can get without touching him, can smell sunshine and regret on him. "It was just my time."

"Should never have been your time," Dean says, the words catching in his throat.

Sam sighs. "It shouldn't have been _yours_ ," he replies. "I mean, you didn't have to drown with me. You could've let me go."

"No, Sam," Dean says, and there's no arguing with him when their eyes meet again; the certainty there is absolute. "I couldn't have."

*** 

"I guess we're staying this time," Dean says sometime later. They're sitting on the edge of a high cliff, watching the canyon bellow burn orange and red, sinking deeper into shadow under the setting sun.

"Is this really so bad?" Sam asks. "We're safe here, we're together, we can do anything we want." 

"It _is_ kinda nice here," Dean admits.

"Then what's the problem?"

"No problem, really, it's just- I guess I've been waitin' for the other shoe to drop," Dean says, looking at Sam. "We never got to keep anything good before."

Sam just stares at his brother, not saying anything. Dean's haloed in light, and he's so beautiful that Sam can't find any words right then. He takes off his shoes instead, and, with a smile, tosses them down into the canyon, first one and then the other. "There," he finally says, looking at Dean again. "You don't have to worry about that anymore."

Dean's startled laugh echoes throughout the canyon, beats like wings where Sam's heart is. 

*** 

"This again?" Dean says, more puzzlement than anything else when they find themselves back in that first motel room, the one that had started them down their joint trip down memory lane. 

Sam pulls out his chair and sits. _Colorado_ , he thinks. _Castle Rock, Colorado. Dad came back from his hunt almost two weeks late._ Aloud, he says, "I couldn't tell her."

"Couldn't tell who what?" Dean asks, joining Sam at the kitchenette table. 

"Jess," Sam clarifies. He looks down into his cereal bowl, then at Dean. "She thought I hated Lucky Charms and I never told her it wasn't true."

Dean looks at Sam's bowl too, a thoughtful expression on his face. "'Cause they reminded you of this? Of all the times we barely had anything to eat?"

"No, wasn't that," Sam says softly. "It was _you_. My whole life, Dean, they always reminded me of you."

"Me?" Dean sits straighter, raising an eyebrow.

"You," Sam repeats. "I never told her 'cause it was too private. You know? I just, I missed you so damn much, Dean, all the time, and I couldn't think about Lucky Charms without thinking about you too, and there were enough things that reminded me of you already and I-" Sam huffs out a breath, shaking his head, unable to go on. 

"C'mere," Dean says, getting up, walking around the table and grabbing Sam's hand. 

Dean leads Sam out of the room and Sam lets him, feels the room shimmer away behind them. They're on a beach and the sky's just beginning to lighten, the first rays of sun starting to peek over the horizon. Dean's lips are on his before he can form a thought or a word, and Sam grunts and pulls Dean closer, pressing their bodies together. 

"I didn't wanna do this in there," Dean whispers, not quite breaking their kiss. 

"Why not?" Sam murmurs, shuddering, voice as hoarse as Dean's. 

"'Cause that's an old memory. It's part of our past. But this," Dean says, kissing Sam again, thorough, breathless. "This is part of our future." 

***

"I think we're done," Dean says, lips brushing against Sam's shoulder. 

"Done with what?" Sam drags his hand down Dean's body, smiling when he feels Dean's stomach quiver under his touch. The raft they're lying on floats aimlessly on the surface of the lake, rocking them with lazy motions.

"With the memories," Dean whispers. "I think we've exhausted our treasure trove of Hallmark moments."

Sam laughs and kisses Dean's mouth, wet and languid. He thinks Dean's probably right; they'd come full circle with the motel room in Colorado. It made sense for it to be the last one. 

They fall silent for a while, basking in the sunshine and the feel of skin against skin. Light streams down into the lake in radiant sheets, and Sam thinks about how beautiful it looks when seen from underwater. 

"I wondered," Sam murmurs, mouthing Dean's ear.

"If I felt it too?" Dean asks, shuddering against Sam. 

"Yeah."

"It's all I've ever felt," Dean breathes, the words trembling in the space between them like a confession. "All I ever wanted. You and me, Sammy. You and me." 

Sam waits for him to say more, but all Dean does is kiss him then, over and over again. He opens his mouth wide against Dean's and lets him in as deep as he wants, wrapping his arms tighter around his brother. "You and me," Sam vows, knowing there's no better fate than that.


End file.
